Soliloquium
by lilien passe
Summary: Gilbert volunteers as a tour guide at an art museum, living off of the attention and devotion of its patrons. Lonely art-nerd Gilbert and neglectful Ludwig-centric. Germancest,


Author's Notes: I wrote this as a request fic for the lovely Assby, who runs (in my opinion) the best ask-Gilbert blog on tumblr. She and Luci are my two absolute favorites. I tried really hard not to make this a pretentious piece of crap but that really didn't work out so well.

Don't trip over the awful, awful ending oh god I'm so sorry.

Warnings: Language. Countries that call each other brother making out with each other. Countrycest. Not to be confused with Countrymusiccest which is also just known as Tennessee.

Sick burn.

(~*~)

_**Soliloquium **_

(~*~)

Gilbert was one for long speeches.

It wasn't just that he loved to hear himself talk, because he loved that very much. But even more than that was having a captive audience. When what you were saying was so brilliant, so inspired it made mere mortals tremble with the brilliance of it all. Truly good orators – and Gilbert had known several during the course of his sordid history – truly good orators could manipulate time in ways relative physics could only have wet dreams about. They could suspend their audiences, inspire them to kill or to save or to set themselves on fire with gasoline. Take completely ordinary people and turn them into the most marvelous tools of history, the kind that textbooks mention as number three thousand seven hundred twelve out of ten thousand six hundred and ninety two casualties.

The ability to turn a human being, a single entity with a million different possibilities of existence, into a number was a brilliant gift indeed.

Sadly, it didn't make you very popular with the rest of the world. They had a way of resenting statistics.

Gilbert's speeches, though, however long, were never planned. The antithesis of his brother's. They were spontaneous things, and their spontaneity was what had made him an adored puppet master who loved his little wooden dolls even more than they loved him.

Loved.

No one listened to him anymore.

Not even the one being that always had. His own adored statistic.

The coffee was cold in the white ceramic cup, and Gilbert ticked another notch into the underside of the table with his fingernail.

Third try.

"Ludwig. I'll be back later tonight."

The newspaper across the table ruffled, and a deep baritone 'mm' rose up from its crinkling pages.

Gilbert propped his chin in his hands, staring at the black and white print and his brother's thick, scarred fingers delicately gripping the edge. There were coffee stains underneath his fingernails. Cuticles ragged. He'd been biting his nails again when the Chancellor wasn't looking. The Chancellor hated nervous ticks. Not that Gilbert would know, having not had contact with her in years, and it was far beneath him to bribe her secretary for information and then hide an amazingly brilliant spy pen in her pen cup when she'd refused to comply

Far beneath. Molten core level.

He needed to buy a new spy pen. The old one had been ground to dust under his brother's heel.

Gilbert adjusted his sweater vest and sat back in his chair. Technically Ludwig's sweater vest. His brother really couldn't pull of red. Conflicted with his blue eyes.

Gilbert tried again, scratching another notch in the table.

"I'll be back later tonight."

"Mm."

Gilbert gave the newspaper a rather disgruntled look and then stood up, pushing his glasses in his pocket and grabbing his briefcase.

Mental tick in the wood.

"I'll be back later tonight."

The newspaper rustled angrily.

"I heard you the first time, Gilbert. I'll see you tonight."

"Liars are supposed to have good memories."

The paper rustled again, settling back down.

"Mm."

Gilbert stared at his brother for a moment, the newspaper that was his face, the coffee stains that were his fingers, the suit and tie that were his body.

He didn't recognize any of them.

Gilbert tugged on his shoes and headed out the door. There was the usual gut-wrenching jar as he left the confines of their house, and he shrugged off the little voices that tried to push him up towards the north. The job helped keep them away. Before when he had tried to leave, it had been almost impossible. Not enough people had wanted to hire him, and Ludwig had gently but firmly insisted he stay inside. For his own safety. No use stirring things up when they were just getting settled.

But that was decades ago. Long even by their standards, and now Gilbert was headed to the museum. One of Ludwig's, but one his brother didn't care about. Lack of guns and guilt made it ignorable.

Gilbert hummed under his breath as he pushed open the door, the urge to flee to the other side of the walls trapped against the outside of the glass.

The museum was still dark, the staircase in front of him roped off and the paintings still sleeping in the wings. More a crypt than anything.

Pretentious briefcase stored, nametag affixed, Gilbert started getting things ready. The first swarm of tourists fresh off the bus usually arrived at half past.

The other guides began to arrive, giving Gilbert polite smiles as they got ready, diving the daily chores up with a friendly air. Pastries were exchanged, coffee chugged, and each painting in the Gemäldegalerie slowly stirred to life in its frame.

Gilbert sipped his coffee, watching the humans mill about, chatting with each other, double checking their facts for the newest exhibition, fixing their little English mistakes, breathing and eating and drinking far too little for Gilbert's tastes.

They generally didn't like to talk to him. Envy that he'd met many of the exhibited artists, maybe. At least that's what Gilbert told himself as he swaggered through the wings, reminiscing loudly about how pretentious or hilarious or genuinely terrifying artist A, B, or C was. The looks on their faces were too priceless to resist, but the joke got less and less funny every time as his audience dwindled.

His first tour had been impromptu. A product of sheer frustration and panic. The paintings had smelled old through the glass, and he'd run to them, finding ones that he'd known, that he'd seen exhibited or stolen or even painted and clung to the memories. He'd started talking about the paintings to no one in particular. Skipping from room to room until he saw another familiar face. Humans had started trailing after him. He'd ignored them until they started asking questions, and hearing their voices, even those of strangers to his house, his brother's house, had been an anchor.

It turned into a performance. The guides silently followed the gaggle of normal humans, notepads out and pens flying across the paper.

He'd been hired the next day.

Gilbert downed his tenth cup of coffee before throwing the paper thing in the trash. He could hear the busses trundling down the road. He cleared his throat and straightened his tie, watching as the first flood approached the museum, drawn to the lovely admission price of free and recommendations from whatever newest star guide book was popular in their country.

Loud. Most likely Jones'.

Gilbert slipped the headset over his ear, adjusting the mike around his neck and casting his supervisor a pleading look. She pursed her lips, sizing up the rest of the tour guides before she gave a little nod in Gilbert's direction. A huge smile lit up his face and he hurried forward, remembering to slip on his glasses at the last second. Lent an air of credibility to the otherwise insane East German package.

Berlin was the only city where that was still a commodity.

He burst into his welcome speech, not hesitating a moment even when several of the Americans clutched their guide books to their chests and cast the door behind them longing looks.

They'd learn. They'd love him soon enough.

"Welcome, welcome. In case you're lost, this is the Gemäldegalerie, I'll say that again in a moment for those of you upon whose ears German does not easily fall. My name is Gilbert and I will be your tour guide through the museum. Audio guides are available should you wish to peruse the collections on your own-"

Gilbert's smile faltered ever so slightly as half the group made a beeline for the stairs, towards the welcome desk.

"-Your own… time."

Gilbert fell silent for a moment, his fingers twitching as he fiddled with his nametag. Plastic. He disliked plastic. So unnatural. Bizarre. Was it glass, was it paper, was it an unholy child of the two. He didn't trust it. He couldn't keep up with inventions even if they were decades old-

"Are you alright, dear?"

Gilbert blinked in surprise and stared at the bespectacled woman with the charming hunch who had spoken. He flashed her a little smile, hands delving in his pockets to hide the trembling. He had a thing with people on his tours leaving. The thing being that he really hated it and it made him want to hit them with paintings.

"Never better," he said lightly, turning on his heel and gesturing with his elbow for people to follow him. He spoke seamlessly, only two months of giving the tour more than enough time for him to memorize and come up with a narrative that contained just the right amount of scandalous and controversial information to keep even a Frenchman interested.

It was his one source of pride. A few little scraps of land aside, it was what he had. The collection. This collection. It would never beat Braginski's Hermitage or Francis' Louvre, but he knew it. It was his.

The record scratching sound that assaulted his thoughts made him give a mental pause.

Right. Not his.

Ludwig's.

His stupid brother's. Ludwig had never even been. Not since he'd built it as a huge middle finger to Gilbert's formerly far-superior island.

Gilbert's feet and tongue and lips moved on autopilot, his eyes flicking from one painting to the next. The group was animated – typical of Jones' breed – and asked interesting questions – a bit rarer, but welcome. They walked through the blue room, the green room, the single hall that connecting them in bright yellow. It ended in the gift shop, of course, and he bid them farewell.

A sigh, a cup of coffee, and it was time for the ten A.M.

French.

Gilbert's French was so rusty. Once the lovely language of the realm and the object of desire of his dear Frederick, it had fallen into disuse.

Russian.

Gauche. Too many jokes for his liking and unimpressed glances out the window.

More Americans. Brits who hated being confused for Americans. Canadians who nearly wept when being mistaken for Americans. Canada seemed big on theatrics. Must be the cold. Couldn't complain about the cold, had to get your emotional jollies from somewhere.

Gilbert crushed his paper cup. Five o'clock. Last tour of the day. Another English one, thankfully. Too much Russian or French or god forbid his broken and archaic Japanese made his head hurt.

He glanced at himself in the break room mirror, prodding the dark circles under his eyes. Unusual for things like them to show signs of fatigue. Maybe it was all the coffee.

That had to be it. They were coffee stains. Just like his brother's fingers except not gross and instead very mysterious. All he needed was a cigarette and some hair gel to achieve that disheveled look and he'd fit in with the people his brother hated to resonate with.

Anyone not in a business suit.

No newspaper.

Too many cups of coffee, cutting notches in their breakfast nook table.

Gilbert prodded the dark spots under his eyes again.

Paintings.

Right, the paintings.

The guests. His temporary little population.

Gilbert left the break room, heading off for the four o'clock. Orange light was streaming in through the western windows, carefully guided to fall to the floor and against blank, unimportant walls.

Gilbert stood in front of the sign, in a patch of sunlight that made his skin glow and his eyes look even odder than they normally did. The doors opened and cautious tourists poked their heads in before shuffling forward, slumped shoulders and filled memory cards of a day in a city that wasn't theirs.

Gilbert waited patiently. The last group was made of stragglers. People who didn't prioritize art and the splendor of humanity but fawned over tragedy and concrete and Charlie.

He checked his watch, fingers twitching as the coffee seeped in between the folds of his brain.

Five after five, he started. The speech was said with just as much fervor, every bit as enthusiastic as its predecessors. For someone who had lived as long as he had, repeating the same speech twenty times a day was nothing. Monotony was not a word used lightly among his kind.

The glass doors swung open once more, and polished shoes slid across the tile.

Gilbert was too lost in the performance to notice the latecomer, too excited that no one had bolted yet for the welcome desk and the stupid audio guides.

Traitorous things, audio guides. He'd been caught shoving one down the garbage disposal in the café's kitchen. It had obviously somehow cried out for help. How else would anyone have noticed one missing and being mutilated beyond repair. The noise hadn't been that loud. Although the thought of the guides having a voice of their own was disturbing enough for him to want to take a blender to the lot, the stealing of his potential guests was their true crime.

Gilbert didn't handle jealousy well. As Ludwig used to remind him before his brother was comprised of folded paper and pressed suit, back when he had tried to be human for those few, brief years between the awkwardness of adolescence and the treaties stitched across his mouth.

Gilbert headed up the stairs backwards, still chattering away, feeling relieved that he'd misjudged the group. Oddly enthusiastic. Mixed houses. That always led to interesting questions. What was taught and valued in one house differed substantially from another.

He threw himself into his speeches, gesturing wildly and mimicking some of the more ridiculous stories he'd gathered and espoused and manipulated until they were perfect and they were his. He drew laughs, the humans grew lighter on their feet, their eyes lingered a few milliseconds longer on a tiny detail. The signing of the artist's name. The golden apple clutched against Eve's breast, the gaping maw of the man in yellow. Counted his teeth, plucked the apple with their eyes and carried it with them through the exhibits.

It wasn't until the green room that Gilbert noticed.

It was in the middle of his Rembrandt speech. His favorite. Everyone loved Rembrandt. His paintings stood out, would stand out in a room no matter where you put them. The expressions were what did it. The absolute humanity on their faces, the power with which the oils were smeared to convey from one human to another the agony of loss, the delight of mirth, the nobility of the human animal.

Gilbert's temporary citizens were perched in his hand, listening with rapt attention all, and he was pouring out the soul of the artist for them to inspect. His eyes drifted, caught by the sound of restless stirring. The kind that made him lose his patience if done enough and declare humanity doomed to imbecility.

He recognized the suit before he did his brother's face.

There, standing off to the side in the very back of the large group, was Ludwig. His newspaper was tucked underneath his arm, part of an article still visible. The glass doors of the museum in stark black and white against the page, surrounding the article heralding the guides of Berlin's cherished collection. He looked uncomfortable, shying away from Jones' and Kirkland's and Honda's people, brushing off his suit whenever they got too close. His eyes were dark and flickered from painting to painting like a lost child, lips pressed in a thin line, jaw set and brows furrowed.

Gilbert took in his brother's presence in less time than it took him to blink, and it hijacked his tongue.

He froze, staring wide-eyed at the owner of his sanctuary.

Every artist's name, every date every fact he'd memorized shut itself away in little boxes marked 'Open When Calm.'

Useless system. Really had to come up with a new one that didn't rely quite so heavily on marked periods of mental stability.

The little threads binding him to his impermanent subjects began to snap as one by one they glanced around in confusion, searching for the source of their guide's sudden statuesque status.

Finally one cleared his throat and said in halting German, "Sir? Are you alright?"

The ugliness of the accent jerked Gilbert out of his daze, and with one last glance at his brother, never meeting his eyes, he turned back to his people, slowly coaxing them again.

"Yes. Momentarily stunned by how stunningly _poor_ Rembrandt was towards the end of his life, as I mentioned before."

The humans relaxed, mollified again by the stream of facts they would struggle to recall tomorrow and forget entirely when trying to impress their relatives back home.

Gilbert cut Ludwig out of the picture with startling ease, setting that portion of the landscape aside to be dealt with later. He continued the tour, adjusting his glasses when appropriate to stir up laughs, bantering with the British guests about the merits of sweater vests, talking and talking and talking until his throat was torn to shreds.

They devoured every word.

Gilbert relished the devotion, beamed with delight at the questions and comments as they slowly made their way towards the end. The bit of cropped landscape was demanding attention, but he continued to push it aside for as long as he could until it raised his hand.

He ignored it, but his audience had engaged the unwanted scrap and encouraged it to talk.

With an unnecessarily loud and awkward booming voice, the bit of landscape spoke, its blonde eyebrows narrowing and pale lips curling around each word.

"Why are you here?" Ludwig asked, his bluntness making the member of Honda's house look ashamed on his behalf. "You're pathetically overqualified. This collection is garbage compared to France or Russia or even America so why are you here?"

The group fell silent, giving the blonde odd looks. His English was nearly impeccable, save for the slight German accent that gave him away. The content puzzled them, and they cast helpless eyes on Gilbert, looking for a guide.

Gilbert's long fingers tugged at his tie, his face pale as the piece slid back into focus.

Ludwig looked furious. Disgusted. Confused and disoriented and odd, weird, almost sentimental expressions that his face was no good at making. Was decidedly bad at making. It made him painful to look at, even more painful than having to listen to him with his thunderous voice and absence of volume control. Set to eleven constantly except when in bed when it slid down to negative twelve.

Gilbert cleared his throat, the pressure of the humans staring at him wearing away at what little control he'd managed to scrap together. He pressed the tips of his fingers together, adapting a thoughtful look that comforted them.

Ludwig continued to glare, to make the guests uncomfortable, and Gilbert finally accepted defeat.

He cast one last glance back towards the collection, the children milling about Rubens' Sebastian, counting his arrows.

"…Museums breathe," he said idly, fingers running along the edge of his nametag. His assumed name printed in bold letters so the humans could understand.

"They breathe with every rush of patrons that walk up those steps, through each gallery, that run to see the paintings featured most prominently in their guidebooks and leave behind several hundred lonely frames in their wake. And the air moves with them. It pauses in front of Titian, Rembrandt, Velázquez, honoring the masters and breezing by those whose oils don't catch the eye. Poorly maintained or doomed from the start, unworthy of a madman's acid bath and knife. The very air ignores their existence. "

Gilbert shrugged, his bony shoulders barely disturbing the dust that clung to his shirt, a wry smile on his face as he finally caught Ludwig's eyes.

They were still blue. He half expected the monochrome paper to have drained their color.

"I empathize. That is all."

There was a moment of silence before the humans laughed awkwardly, some primal part of them understanding the grand joke, the vast guffaw, while their egos pushed it aside. Art types always were eccentric, after all. Breathing museums. Good lord what sort of pretentious Oxford hopeful dreamed up that sort of drivel.

Ridiculous.

They teased him and laughed until he laughed with them, sharing in the surface joke that even he of so little modernity understood. Hipster, was it? Yes his glasses were very evocative of that subculture. _Yes_ he did only drink organic coffee and rode a fixed speed bike however did they guess.

But in the back of the group, Ludwig didn't laugh.

Instead he looked angry for a moment. Angry in the way he had when Gilbert's house had won that soccer game. Contemptuous and mean and as cruel as he had been and could still be when his humanity was swallowed up. Like Gilbert had taught him to be and had praised him for when a lack of humanity was their most valuable commodity and means of survival.

But the moment passed, and Gilbert watched through pale lashes as a spark of understanding took light underneath the coffee-stained circles of his brother's eyes. It spread to his mouth, easing out the thin line and giving his lips form again. Filling the sunken cheeks and lines. Lightening his hair and erasing the angry flush to his nose and ears.

Out of the corner of Gilbert's eye, Ludwig was twenty again. His suit was far too big for him, his tie done up wrong, his hands shaking from caffeine he wasn't used to, his hair disheveled from too many nights awake. He took a few steps back, the newspaper in his hands slowly turning to confetti as he tore at it, a haunted look on his face.

Gilbert listened idly to the chatter of his temporary humans as he watched his brother fade into the background. He cut him out again, gently this time, and set him aside.

Later.

He herded his humans into the gift shop, chatting with them as they bought souvenirs, as they offered to buy him chocolates or pastries from the café when they found out this was a volunteer job. Gilbert just laughed again and said he was full, keeping the punch line for himself this time.

The voice on the intercom made them hurry away, and they left in a flurry of excitement, quoting him ad nauseam to relive the moment they'd experienced and lost only seconds ago. Doors shut behind them, the rest of the guides slowly trickling out through the employee entrance until only the brooms and their keepers were left.

The sun was lower in the sky, a few beams of orange light clinging stubbornly to the floors.

Gilbert remained still for a moment, storing the happy reactions, the need for him in a quiet place in his head to look at later when he returned to a cold house and a walking suit.

That was still somewhere in the museum.

Gilbert glanced up the stairs, listening carefully for any signs of his brother. The place was quiet save for the swish of bristles against stone.

He jogged up the stairs, retracing his steps until he came back to the tear in the landscape he'd made. It was still gone. He carefully pieced it back together, opening his eyes to the empty space he'd created, but Ludwig really wasn't there.

With a little frown Gilbert poked his head into the nearest wing, glancing up and down before something caught his eye.

Scraps of newspaper on the floor.

He gave a delicate roll of his eyes to make himself feel better, muttering under his breath, "Very Grimm of you, Ludwig…" before following the paper trail.

It meandered around the collection, stopping in front of paintings that Gilbert hadn't touched. There were little piles of paper in front of several. Sometimes only two or three, sometimes ten or twenty or too many to count with one glance. The trail went on, back through the collection to the very first room.

Gilbert rounded the corner, shoving the paper bits he'd collected into his pocket. His steps slowed until he came to a stop.

Ludwig was standing in front of a dark painting that covered nearly the entire expanse of that portion of the room. A bolt of lightning lit up the top, the only part spared from the sun damage that had blackened the rest of the upper half. In the bottom part lay the dim figures of humans writhing on the ground, demons among them, fire eating through the earth.

Gilbert had studied the painting before, but it had never interested him less than it did in that moment. His focus was on his brother. The back of his head didn't give much away, but his tense shoulders did. The absent newspaper did even more.

Silence filled the room, bathing in the lone spring of orange sunlight.

"I thought you hated art."

Ludwig's voice made the dust motes stir; breathed life into the museum as it registered a presence still lurking in front of one of its paintings.

Gilbert's loud burst of laughter quelled it immediately.

"Hated art? I hate the artist many times. Hated standin' still for portraits, hated how awful and washed-out and monstrous they made me look. But I don't recall ever sayin' I hated art itself."

Ludwig didn't respond.

Gilbert finally took a step forward, not relishing the idea of approaching the second coming.

"Why did you feel the need t' hunt me down?" he asked, his voice light with affected disinterest. "Why the hell'd you even show up? You've got a meetin' today, right? Economic crisis an' all that. Disownin' Greece an' maybe even Italy. Hell I say get rid of all the Mediterraneans an' we'd be good t' go but no one outside of this buildin' really gives a shit what I have t' say."

"Pity parties don't become you, Gilbert," Ludwig muttered, his voice dropping into an almost childish snap. "Knock it off." He suddenly turned around, every hair back in place and blue eyes no longer lost.

"Why are _you _here?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "And don't give me a pretty answer this time. You've never looked that happy in decades but these-… these _tourists_ somehow get you to smile? Get you to talk about something other than how much you hate me? How much you want to go back, how you miss having your own house?!"

Ludwig's voice made the paintings rattle with its last words, and as they quieted he retreated, a sickened look taking over his features. He pressed a hand against his face, and Gilbert watched his brother crumple again.

He felt oddly detached. Like he was watching some other nation retreating instead of the one he shared a heart with. Or the one whose heart he was a parasite to. Berlin beat in both their chests, but it was Ludwig who kept it alive. Gilbert's half was half necrotic at times. It came to life at night. In front of paintings he remembered. Palaces he'd once called home.

"You put me here."

Ludwig opened his mouth to speak but closed it again as Gilbert held up a hand.

"You put me here," Gilbert said again, his eyes flicking to the side, staring at a forgotten portrait of some Duchess. She'd probably loathed the way the artist had perfectly captured her hooked nose. Falcon lady.

"I'm the exhibit in your house now. The humans listen and forget the moment they leave unless my life plays into their careers. I'm a framed picture on professors' walls and in the living rooms of our house. In the attic with a sheet over me, turned to face the wall and chained like Gray's portrait and never talked about."

He shrugged again, the movement a clumsy and contrived air of indifference. The smile on his face was a mimic.

"But I suppose that's where I belong. You're not hearin' me as much as you used to, so I figure it's just a matter of time. There's only so much I can do t' stave off the inevitable, but whenever people listen, even if they're not from my house, I feel better. I like talkin', I like havin' them need me. Do that for a day, an' I can go home an' deal with bein' in a frame. Makes the walls livable again."

Ludwig remained still, blending into the dark oils behind him, reds and oranges of the fire tugging at his wrists.

Gilbert listened to his words echo, checking them for traces of deceit, for performance, deceit's suave older brother. Every word rang miserably true, and with a sickening wrench Gilbert realized he hadn't been playing the martyr. For once in his new life he wasn't saying the words to provoke a reaction from Ludwig. To get him to look at him, to raise his voice at him, anything.

How pathetic to confess in front of a picture of the Last Judgment. It was seeped in about twelve layers of putrid irony.

Gilbert resisted the urge to relocate and repeat his speech again. It might make him seem less maudlin if it were in front of van Delft's wine or pearl necklace instead of a picture of Jesus tromping all over people like the unsettling holy zombie he was.

Neither brother moved.

The museum let out a little breath, growing impatient, and Gilbert at last stepped towards the painting. He didn't like how it was swallowing up his brother. Ludwig still hadn't moved, the bruised shadows hiding his face from view.

"Ludwig," Gilbert said quietly, holding out his hand. Enough to be easily pushed away or dismissed as an odd twitch.

Ludwig didn't stir. Probably didn't hear him.

Gilbert marked a notch in the table.

Try again.

"Ludwig," he said, a bit more firmly. The frames rattled, and Ludwig finally moved.

Blue eyes flicked downwards for a moment to fixate on Gilbert's face before he pushed himself away from the painting, tugging his tie looser. He broke free of the oils and shadows easily enough, a hardened look on his face. His hands went to his pockets as he stormed forward, making Gilbert sidestep in his haste to get out of his brother's way. That look on Ludwig's face never meant anything good. Last time it had started a tiny war.

But Ludwig's footsteps followed him, and Gilbert suffered a momentary stroke as Ludwig suddenly turned and stood in front of him, backing him up against the wall. Gilbert kept his chin up, holding his ground and bracing himself for the onslaught of derision about to head his way, sharpening what few unused words in his vernacular were left.

But Ludwig's mouth remained shut, and instead his brother simply looked at him.

Gilbert could hear the paintings next to him trembling as he shook the wall with nerves and more than a spark of anger. He held his ground as best he could against his brother's sizeable bulk, ignoring the corner of a frame digging into his shoulder.

"I won't quit," he snarled, unsure of what kind of intimidation ploy Ludwig was getting at. What sort of power grab. "I won't. I like it here, I feel at home here people listen to me people _look _at me and respect me and I don't feel like a taxidermy animal you keep around and never guard from moths or pay attention to it other than to call up museums an' ask if they wanna purchase an extinct-mmph."

Gilbert's eyes flashed with anger and he tugged at Ludwig's hand clamped over his mouth, but Ludwig's fingers refused to budge. His brother had an exasperated look on his face, youthful in its temper and fond in the small wrinkles around his eyes.

Gilbert's struggles slowed, and he finally lowered his hands, Ludwig's following a moment later.

Ludwig wiped his hand on the leg of his suit, wrinkling it slightly. He didn't seem to notice or care.

Gilbert stared at the wrinkle, transfixed by the slight imperfection. He almost missed the quiet words.

"I listen."

Gilbert jerked backwards as a small notebook was thrust in his face, muttering a quiet 'ow' and rubbing his head where the wall had given it a plaster kiss. He glanced up at his brother in irritable confusion, finally snatching the tiny notebook out of Ludwig's behemoth grip.

It was a date book. One of those plan-a-day calendars that Ludwig kept in his back pocket and checked like Pavlov's dog any time someone near him so much as breathed. It was open to the past two months, and Gilbert had to tug on his glasses again to read the meticulous script covering each day.

Some of the days differed. Meetings, conferences, dentist appointments, and Gilbert felt a flash of irritation surge through him. He didn't need to bother carrying a date book. Looking at a calendar. Every day was the same. Show up, if the museum was open he had work, if not, he went back home.

But three words were penned in Ludwig's neat script underneath every day's events, and the heavy repetition finally caught his eye.

Gilbert home late.

Gilbert blinked slowly, certain he'd misread. He slowly turned a page, examining the next month.

Gilbert home late.

Every notch in the table matched a note in the book.

Gilbert pressed his fingers against the little ink stains to mark his place, finally glancing up at his brother with a look of confusion on his face. Ludwig rubbed his arm in a childishly sweet gesture of embarrassment, finally shrugging and mumbling, "I don't like to forget important things."

The date book fell to the floor as Gilbert tackled his brother, tugging him down and pressing his nose against Ludwig's. A rough smile splintered the ornate frame around his chapped as Ludwig mumbled inelegant, honest words that were hidden from prying oil ears. Gilbert closed his eyes, his tongue still, listening to his brother's voice for the first time in years. Not the tone, not the words, but the presence of his voice. The way his chest rumbled when he talked, the slight hitch to his cadence when he was unsure. How he bit his lip and worried at it until it bled when he was worried.

His fingers tugged at perfect strands of hair, the rough wool in his vest wrinkling the pressed suit with its parallel lines where their bodies met flushed against one another. His brother was made imperfect by him, and he longed to make him more imperfect still.

Gilbert finally pressed his hand over Ludwig's lips to halted the neurotic stream of sound, feeling the smear of blood against his palm from where his brother's teeth had sunk into flesh too deeply.

"I don't need a speech," he said, laughing at the disgruntled look in Ludwig's eyes. "Stop that. I really don't. Three are enough."

Ludwig tugged aside his brother's bony fingers, muttering, "You couldn't have told me that five minutes ago before I made a fool of myself?"

Gilbert snorted quietly and threaded his fingers through Ludwig's mussed hair, bumping his pointy nose against his brother's Roman one.

"I like seeing you foolish," he murmured, tilting his head to the side, lips brushing against his brother's reddened ones. "What can I say."

"Too much," Ludwig muttered, and Gilbert just laughed before crushing his lips against Ludwig's, ignoring the scandalized gasps of a broom keeper that had rounded the corner, the sharp corner of a frame against his spine, the unsettling rocking of the temporary wall as Ludwig pressed him up against it.

The extremely loud and alarming creaking and the dangerous tapping of swaying frames against the wall as Ludwig rolled his hips against his.

Gilbert weighed the pros and cons of sacrificing priceless artwork for the sake of the resolution of decades of tension.

Sacrifice nearly won out. The three brain cells he had to spare that weren't preoccupied with Ludwig's tongue coaxing his own into his mouth had voted two to one.

Gilbert stopped clawing at his brother's broad shoulders long enough to shove him backwards, pinning him to the floor instead, his eyes nearly black and chest heaving as he panted softly, "Sexual deviancy… not worth destroying… Dutch revival collection… by slim margin…"

"Fuck the Dutch," Ludwig muttered, tugging Gilbert down again to kiss him, fingers splayed over the rough contours of his brother's back.

Gilbert laughed against his brothers lips and closed his eyes against the dying sunlight, the rest of his speeches burning into cheerful embers.

What good were speeches anyway.

He had all the audience he'd ever needed.

The portraits politely averted their eyes, and kept their comments to themselves.


End file.
